Lucas rotated in his seat and gave him a thumbs-up.

“No problem, hero,” he said. “It’s a long way down to the ground.”

Musil entered the garage and heard its roll-down door activate behind him. He had seen the Mazda parked inside from the driveway and stopped for a quick look around. The garage was otherwise empty, its shelves and pegboards bare, no tools, no spare tires, no lawn mower, no coiled-up garden hose, no dirty work boots flopped over against a wall, nothing.

As the garage door lowered behind him, he saw the fire door on his right in the common wall with the house. His eyes held there as the mechanized garage door rattled shut and cut off the sunlight.

He stood waiting in the dark. He heard the hard, rapid stroking of his heart in his chest and breathed deeply to slow it down. In through the nose, holding the air in his lungs, exhaling through his mouth. His nostrils had picked up a faint soapy smell, mixed with chemical traces. Epoxy. For Sale by Owner. The garage was emptied out, its concrete floor cleaned of oil stains and resurfaced. Fixed up for potential buyers.

Musil stood there. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything but the slow, deep, rhythmic, repetitive in-and-out of his breath. He imagined his daughters on the other side of the fire door, separated from him by a few short yards. He pictured them in the house, frightened and helpless, and fought down the irrational impulse to try kicking his way through to reach them. That wouldn’t work. That would only get them killed. He had to stay calm.

He inhaled, exhaled. Slowly, deeply.

The fire door opened, swinging into the garage.

Grigor Malkira stood framed inside the entryway, a pistol extended in his hand.

Musil stared at his face. It was the face from the photos. The one Ki had traced to Pinnacle.

Fake Gelfland.

“You wanted me,” Malkira said, softly. “Here I am.”

Musil watched him. He saw a second firearm at his side, strapped over his shoulder. A carbine.

“I assume that’s the file,” Malkira said, nodding toward the envelope in his hand.

“Yes.”

“Good. Put it on the floor and leave it there.”

Musil did as he was told.

Grigor smiled. It was like a thin tail coiling upward on his lips.

“All the lies,” he said. “Next I want you to remove your turban.”

Musil looked at him.

“No disrespect,” Malkira said. “I’m just making sure you aren’t hiding anything like a bug or a weapon.”

Musil breathed. After a moment he took the dastār off his head and tossed it underhand onto the floor between them.

“Good. Now your shirt. Pull it out of your waist, unbutton it, and open it wide.”

He opened his shirt. Malkira nodded.

“Shoes, next. Kick them off.”

Musil did it.